


Of Worried Vulcans and Their Tendency to Cling

by imma_redshirt



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-10-08 07:31:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10381662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imma_redshirt/pseuds/imma_redshirt
Summary: A worried Vulcan can apparently be a little bit clingy.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I think the summary might be a little bit misleading? There was supposed to be a lot more clingy Spock here, but with three and a half hours until I have to wake up for work, I don't think I can write anymore in. I wanted to write this before the work week, 'cause I spent all spring break fussing over WIPs and if I didn't finish at least one thing, I would have cried.
> 
> Enjoy!

“You can put me down, Spock.”

At first, Spock ignored him. The Vulcan had definitely heard him--McCoy knew very well how sharp Vulcan hearing was, especially the hearing of the one carrying him through the wetlands of Harvas IV. And considering their extremely close proximity, Spock couldn’t have missed the doctor’s annoyed words.

“ _Spock._ ”

“Your ankle will not be able to hold your weight,” Spock said, and hefted McCoy closer. McCoy grabbed Spock’s uniform for balance purely by habit, as the Vulcan’s hold was steady and barely jostled his armful of scowling doctor. 

“I think I would know if--”

“The water may infect your wound.” 

McCoy huffed. “I dressed that would pretty damn well against everything this planet has to throw at it.”

Spock pressed his lips in that barely noticeable way that said he was holding back a very human sigh. “I don’t doubt your abilities to dress wounds, Doctor.”

“Well, then, you can just put me down and…”

McCoy trailed off. Before he could finish his sentence, the world had begun to tilt around him. His hold on Spock’s shirt tightened, and he squeezed his eyes shut. 

His tilting surroundings had nothing to do with Spock’s hold on him, and everything to do with a sudden bout of dizziness. 

“Leonard?”

“Ah, damnit,” he mumbled, and bit his lips against a wave of nausea.

So maybe some bacteria had infected his wound before he’d been able to wrap it up. It was almost insulting, but McCoy was more fascinated with the speed at which the infection had begun to take effect.

Had he just used the word “fascinated?” Well, damn. Harvas bacteria were fast working little bastards.

McCoy felt Spock’s hold on him grow impossibly tighter before the dizziness twirled him right into unconsciousness. 

\-------

There was a brief moment of being conscious.

McCoy heard harried voices around him. He was very hot, and everything from his head to his wounded ankle _burned._ He couldn’t open his eyes, no matter how much he wanted to, and couldn’t distinguish one voice from another.

Was he on the Enterprise? Or still on Harvas? He just wanted to sleep.

He recognized words like “fever” and “severe” and “Bones” and “ _please_ ,” but that was it. His throat was dry, and he didn’t think he’d ever be able to speak ever again. He knew there were people that he wanted to speak to, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember their names, or who they were, or if they were even real.

All he knew was the burning, and the pain, and the vague, far off comfort of something steady and strong holding him up.

He was tired. He let the heat drag him back to unconsciousness, and ignored the little voice that told him to hold on just a while longer.

\------

He woke up to the sound of whispers beyond a privacy curtain, and the warm weight of a Vulcan hand on his shoulder.

“Leonard,” Spock said, and McCoy turned his head to blink at the First Officer at his side.

Spock sat in a chair close to McCoy’s biobed, leaning close, brown eyes intent on McCoy’s face.

When McCoy didn’t answer, Spock moved his hand to McCoy’s, and held it lightly. 

“You have been in a coma for three days. This is the fourth time you had opened your eyes. On Harvas, your wound had been infected from bacteria in the air. Dr. M’Benga has treated it, and you will be able to leave Medbay in two days.”

McCoy looked at their hands. Spock’s grip had tightened ever so slightly as he spoke, and McCoy could remember the same grip on his arm as Spock had carried him through the marshes.

“You didn’t put me down ‘till we got here, did ya,” he said, voice hoarse.

And call him crazy, but wasn’t that the tiniest, faintest green blush on that stoic Vulcan face? 

With a slow smile, McCoy used his free hand to cover Spock’s, and rubbed his thumb along the Vulcan wrist. 

Spock didn’t remove his hand, but he did twitch an eyebrow.

“I did warn you, Doctor, that your wound would not allow you to walk under your own power.” He tilted his head. “I believe I was correct.”

McCoy may have been weak and recovering, but he could still work up one hell of a heated scowl. “And it wouldn’t have made a difference anyway. Bacteria was in there before I even got to dress it.” He paused and sniffed. “And water still wouldn’t’ve gotten in there.”

Spock didn’t comment, as M’Benga and Jim chose that moment to part the curtain. But McCoy firmly believed he’d won the argument, Vulcan smugness be damned.

\----

Three mornings later, McCoy woke up in his own bed. Behind him, Spock’s hold on him was as steady as ever. He didn’t usually cling to McCoy as they slept, but the night before, he had moved in close and wrapped his arms snug around the doctor, and apparently hadn’t let go since. 

McCoy hadn’t complained when Spock had carried him to bed, and he was a big fan of cuddling, but an entire night in the same position in the arms of a Vulcan led to a lot of sweating.

He slipped an arm out of Spock’s hold and patted his hand, which had worked it’s way under his shirt and was splayed against his stomach. 

“Spock, time to let up.”

Spock didn’t answer. He did, however, somehow move even closer. McCoy grunted, wiggled to test the Vulcan’s hold on him--damn near unbreakable, he reckoned--and sighed. 

“Fine,” he muttered, and relaxed back into the Vulcan’s embrace. Another hour dealing with a worried Vulcan was a fair price to pay for the victory he was bound to have when he brought up that argument about his wound again, anyway.


End file.
